for the world so loved me, it gave me eyes
they say that I am too much
that I think too much
see too much
feel too much
that I complain too much
laugh too much
cry too much
that I’m too tall
too funny, settle down
too quiet, I say in a whisper
one day, I plan to move to the lakes
and you can come too, if you’d like
for this, I know
that the trees can handle the air of my laughter
the water can remember the tune of my song
the soft creaks in the wooden floors hold the weight of me
because for them, I am not too much.
for at the lakes I can cry with laughter in my smile—
I can cry with a lump in my throat
I can scream as loud as I please,
I can feel, I can be
at the lakes, I am me, without the restricting hands
grabbing at my throat, ripping away my sovereignty
for the world so loved me, it gave me eyes
but not eyes just to see, no
because for some, they lack this purpose.
eyes so that I can rub them, and feel the soft sensation
eyes that I can close, even in the dark
eyes that I can use to cry, to express
to show them that I feel
and how I feel so deeply, sometimes that is what is too much.
—Gracie Ringer
Seeds
Two samaras afloat in a bowl,
wind whirling them close and apart.
A sudden stillness surprising
two samaras afloat in a bowl.
Then, delicate wings pulse and stir
that kind of thing, with love, occurs.
Two samaras afloat in a bowl
wind whirling them close and apart.
—Judy Tierney
Some Unsent Thank Yous
To all of you:
the woman in Jackson, Mississippi
who broke my fever with grits and whiskey
and the one in Rome who let me sleep
for 48 hours before cooking my supper,
the brakeman who offered to walk with me
from Alabama to the Pacific
though he had to work the next day,
those who helped me
into and out of uncertain situations
the many who prepared for my coming
and cleaned up after my going
the mystical sirens who forgave my being
strapped to the mast,
Ella Fitzgerald for her Gershwin
so I could dance with a broom
Dylan for his Blind Willie McTell
To help me grieve my bloodline,
And all the solo singers, drummers, pipers
the soaring choruses,
the gaunt minister recalling the sadness
of my parents on their wedding day
James for the question I couldn’t answer:
why ain’t you with your people?
the angel who taught me
how to stop my father’s heart,
and Pascal, who stood by me as I buried it,
the stranger on the plane
who ended my marriage
Toni who defended me at dinner
the thief with the long limbs
diving into the Adriatic, laughing
and the chef who slipped me francs
at the back door of a Paris café
the droopy faced man who took me to the woods
to kill me and didn’t
the raven haired artist who kissed me
on the night train to Berlin
the camp boss who told me:
you may think the sun rises
and sets out of your ass, but it don’t,
all the storytellers who left me
breathless and wondering,
the Hanged Man and Magus
Priestess and Charioteer
for all their pitiless reminders
of the work yet to be done
and those diviners of palm and planet
who named the life coming at me
like so many diamond bullets—
you gifted me
seeking nothing in return
I will not forget
—Kemp Battle
All at Once
I’m the leaf stepped on in haste
The stone thrown by an angry hand
I’m the hate that shatters
glass and silence simultaneously
I’m the tree that stands for hundreds of years
witness to birth and death and misdeeds
I’m the bird that sings through sun and storms
till its voice finds a home in another
I’m the emptiness in the house with broken windows
the hand that sweeps aside the shards
I’m the fear that lingers in the heart of an outcast
the space amid bones where tenderness hides
—Marisa E. Campbell
My Grandmothers, Uptown (Kingston circa 1950)
Effie,
tiny and tweeded;
fretting, snappy eyed:
Sara Lou stately,
an Edwardian portrait breathing lavender and cream,
walk together uptown.
White gloves worn, of course, and hats—
their conversation metered by corners,
crossings, hearts picking up pace in the heat—
they stroll down Wall Street;
gaze into shop windows.
What do they see?
What do they speak of in camisoled tones?
(Just now, the Fairview/Wilbur bus rumbles past,
Coughing fumes and dust.)
Shall we eavesdrop?
Effie: “We missed the bus, Lou!”
Sara Lou: “So we did, Ef… let’s have hot fudge sundaes!”
Effie: “Lets!”
Arm in arm they cross the street to Whalens,
twittering like city sparrows in the August afternoon.
—Alma L. Strickland
Fall
The wind whispered
to a leaf,
caressed the ground
then scurried off without a sound.
—Frances Greenhut
Red
I’m tenure track and you’re reaching terminal velocity
while a summer storm plays on the air conditioner
and my fingers dance with the freckles on your shoulder.
I don’t want to share this with anyone else
but don’t know any other way to keep you here
after you’ve boarded the bus and I’ve showered
and shaved and done laundry,
when you’re gone from my hair and the bedsheets
and I can’t taste you on my whiskers anymore.
I have to write it down—the weight of your head
on my chest, heavier and heavier,
as dusk floods the room,
your breath in my ear, slower and slower,
as you whisper that my heart is beating deeply
just one day after telling me
what I mean is beating strongly.
Here your dress stays draped across the chair,
the night never runs out of new shades of blue,
and we’re both still falling with the rain.
—David Lukas
Birthday Stratagem (A Sonnet)
The wheel has turned, another birthday’s here
And I am older by another year
A year of hard’ning, soft’ning, wrinkling o’er
Is added to my cumulative store
But to take on a twelvemonth’s wear and tear
In just one day would be too much to bear
And so to minimize the trauma, I
Apportion out the aging process by
Dividing by three hundred sixty-five
By growing older slowly, I survive
And see another 19 August come
While hardly hearing time’s relentless drum
Each year, this useful stratagem I keep
Except to stretch in thinner ev’ry Leap
—Andrew Joffe
Trying to Find Myself
I am looking at a panoramic photo
of the Woodstock Music and Art Fair
taken on Saturday morning,
August 16, 1969, and trying to find
myself in the crowd, near the top
of the hill in back toward the left,
as looking from the stage. I am
twenty-two years and two days old
in the photo. I am not stoned, either
in the photo or now as I am looking
at the photo. I have yet to find myself
in the photo, but I am certainly there.
I remember being there. I remember
the enormity of the crowd. I remember
announcements about bad drugs. I
remember the sound of a helicopter.
But, sad to say, I remember none
of the music I heard that day, not
because I was on drugs, which I
wasn’t, but because I was overwhelmed
by all those people, some of whom
were already trying to find themselves
in that photo. Now, over fifty years
later, I am trying to find myself there.
—Matthew J. Spireng
For Willie
Boy magician
Merlin
of the birthday party circuit
How did you slip
through locked doors
the bravest
spectacle
our imaginations
seized
in awe?
By what
charm
did you teleport
so many miles?
green hair
quiet eyes
only to disappear
forever
—Cyrus Mulready
This article appears in October 2025.
